October 3rd
Something very beautiful happened in Concepcion, Chiquirichapa on the evening of October 3rd*. A week earlier there had been a young boy, 22 years old, from Concepcion who was killed in Maryland; he had gone there to work. This young boy happened to be the nephew of one of the beloved midwives, Ophelia**, who works at the clinic I live in. Today was the day that the US had shipped him back to his home country for a proper burial with the family, on his home turf. His body was flown into the capital Guatemala City, and Concepcion is about 5 hours away from the capital. Earlier that day we had heard over the church loudspeakers that his body would be returned to Concepcion and would be paraded through the pueblito at 8pm.
8pm rolled around and I had been in Xela all day, but was back in Concepcion preparing dinner. I was cooking and had tortilla masa all over my hands when, out of the kitchen windows, I heard sounds of honking and saw flashing lights. It wasn’t just short honks like you might hear to alert a friend that you were outside of their home, it was long honks, lasting 10+ seconds and not stopping. At first I was very confused, but then looked at my clock, it was time for the body to be arriving in Concepcion, and this must have been what it sounded like.
Leaving dinner halfway finished I walked outside to see the parade. There were about 30 cars, lights flashing, honking, full of flowers and people. This procession of cars had traveled like this all the way from the capital city, 5 hours away, where they had retrieved the boy’s body. All around the pueblito people were huddled in front of their houses, with their whole families, not saying anything, but just bearing witness to this process, this death procession. They were holding space for all those who were passing by, showing silent respect simply with their presence. We followed the cars to the top of the hill, where cornfields and humble homes surrounding either side of the road. The coffin was dismounted from the vehicle when a woman came up the street behind us, wailing. It was the boy’s mother; four female family members supported her on both sides. Her crying and open grieving was not contained in any way, she was letting it flow through her, it was poignantly stunning. All those around her, watching from their homes, or in the cars, on walking up the street, held this space for her. They did not look at her like she should be quiet, or like she was crazy, or wondering why she was acting like this in public. They bowed their heads, honoring her and her deep process of grieving the loss of her son. I followed the crowd into a humble home, the home of Ophelia, our beloved midwife. She greeted me with a huge hug and smile, thanking me for coming to this very important event.
The scene inside was beautiful. An entrance area before a humble home was full of buckets (as big as troughs!) of thick chicken soup and mountainous piles of steaming tamales rapped in banana leaves. Everyone who walked into the area was greeted by a Mayan woman in traditional clothing, her head covered, wearing a huge smile, and a bowl of steaming soup held out in her hands. Plastic stools were handed out, and we all huddled and cozied up wherever there was enough space to fit, sharing in this delicious feast. Hundreds of people from all over the town of Concepcion were there! On the dirt porch of the house, men sharpened huge knives by rubbing them on the stone of the house. They handed them to dozens of women who were cutting potatoes and carrots; there were abuelitas grinding corn on stones. All of this was for the feast for the next day’s festivities that would take place. Traditionally they stay up all night cooking a soup of carrots and potatoes, making tamales, and holding a vigil for the boy. There is feasting all night, and candles burning brightly all night, flowers everywhere, and a fire is tended to all night. The house is full the whole night with family and friends and community members. Anyone who comes is welcomed in openly and fed a warm meal. It was beautiful to be a part of this celebration.
The whole evening felt very happy, considering the circumstances. I met a local man during the meal who explained to me that many cultures around Concepcion actually celebrate death. Traditionally, especially in San Martin (a town just 15 minutes south of Concepcion), they celebrate when a person dies, because this means that this person no longer has to suffer on this earth; they have done what they needed to do on this earth, and now they get to be free of suffering. Along with this tradition is that they weep when a baby is born. They weep for the suffering that the new life will have to endure in this world. (I have to say I have not seen this tradition true in the birthing rooms at the clinic, ACAM, but I have not attended any births in San Martin).
I was so touched to be a part of such a beautiful ceremony of death. It was an exquisite evening and I am so touched to have been able to bare witness to it, and be an intimate part of it. I am here in Guatemala learning about birth, but in doing so, my interest in death has increased. They are close parts of the same circle. They really are much more similar than many naturally think. They are not, in fact, polarities, as we often are made to believe. What a gift it is to be here learning about the traditions and ceremonies surrounding birth, and how they welcome new life into the family. I felt the circle growing and rounding being able to witness the ceremony of death, and how they welcome death.
*Not to mention all of this took place on the beloved, and dearly missed, David Blair’s birthday. He was there the whole time.
**Ophelia is the woman pictured.